


Chicken Scratch

by nerdybloomers



Series: 120 Drabble Challenge [11]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Culture Shock, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Play Fighting, did i mention there's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:18:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdybloomers/pseuds/nerdybloomers
Summary: Yuuri is slowly adjusting to the quirks that Russia has to offer, but he can't get over the loop-de-loops that Viktor considers handwriting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfills Prompt #106: Perplexed from my own prompt challenge, which can be found on my dusty old dA here:
> 
> Loosely inspired by a tumblr post about cursive Cyrillic.

Sometimes, Yuuri is just confused by the little things about living in Russia.

The snow is falling gently in St. Petersberg, and neither of them feels like venturing out into the cold to shop for groceries for dinner. The idea of freezing on the way to a restaurant, and freezing on the way back, is equally unappealing. And for all of their combined bachelor cooking talents, nobody can make a full meal out of mustard, frozen peas, and shredded cheddar cheese.

Yuuri regrets not leaving the apartment to restock the second they ran out of rice. Viktor blames the curve of his neck for distracting his fiance.

Together they decide on having food delivered. "The only food tastier than the food you cook is the food you don’t have to slave over," Viktor says. "The only food even tastier than that is when it’s brought straight to your door." Yuuri manages to scrounge up a handful of menus, takes one long, hard look at the Cyrillic, and passes them off. Language immersion has given him a grasp on the Russian language as spoken, but he still has issues with the alphabet in print.

They settle on pizza - pizza seems to be a safe choice with across-the-board toppings, no matter where you are in the modern world. Viktor writes down their order on the back of a receipt that’s been gathering dust on the coffee table, calls it in, and stretches like a cat on the couch. Forty-five minutes is a long time to wait when your stomach is gurgling so loud it could be a babbling brook.

Neither of them is surprised when waiting for pizza turns into cuddling on the couch while trying to ignore how hungry they both are. Viktor is quite a warm pillow, doubly so in the Russian winter, and Yuuri is a greedy cuddler without remorse. He readjusts himself to splay across Viktor’s chest, pushing the elder back to recline on the upholstery. The receipt with their order scrawled along the back gets caught in Yuuri’s hair somehow, so he plucks it free.

He’s about to toss it on the table that it came from when he catches a glimpse of Viktor’s writing, and he stops.

“Viktor… what is that?”

The silver-haired man pauses, then blinks twice. “...our pizza order?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “No, I’m pretty sure that’s heiroglyphics. Or doodling.”

“ _Lyubov moya_ , please,” Viktor laughs, and the rich baritone of his voice resonates in his chest. “Are you critiquing my handwriting?”

“No,” Yuuri starts, then corrects himself. “Yes. Maybe? I just. I know what Cyrillic looks like, and _that_ ,” he points to the row of loops, “is _not_ it. Those are squiggles.”

Almost pushing Yuuri to the floor, Viktor darts up and searches for his pen again. “It’s just cursive. Let me show you? This is how you write my name...”

Yuuri snorts. “You’re definitely lying to me,” he accuses with a sideways glance and a grin. He’s seen cursive English, which is pretty hard to make out as far as he’s concerned. Cursive Japanese is far more uncommon due to it being nearly obsolete, but still somewhat legible. Teasing Viktor about his script of choice causes it to veer more and more into the realm of illegibility, and Yuuri thinks he’s struck comedic gold. “See? Looks like chicken scratch.”

When the pizza delivery guy shows up, the first thing the poor teen sees is a crazed man opening the door, silver hair mussed, pen in his mouth, piles of paper in his hands. He’s muttering something around the pen but none of it makes sense, and there’s frazzled writing all over the papers. Thankfully, a smaller man with glasses and a smile takes the pizza, hands him a tip, and thanks him.

_The kid delivers pizza_ , Yuuri thinks. _He’s probably seen weirder_. 

They’re both two slices in when Viktor throws away the mess of papers, considering the bin in the kitchen carefully. “Ah, trash cans. You don’t really see those in Japan, do you, Yuuri?” The mirth in his voice develops a cajoling edge, but his smile still reaches his eyes. "So elusive in public."

Ah. Two can play at this game.

“They’re at least next to convenience stores. Which you don’t have to get dressed up for. I feel like I see people dressed to the nines just to walk their dogs here.” The Japanese man touches his chest as if he’s grasping for his pearls. 

“That’s city life for you. You leave the house to be seen. And I can’t believe that burping is a sign of respect overseas!” Viktor leans over the couch, pantomiming gagging, sending his fiance into a fit of giggles. He encourages the laughter by reaching in to tickle the smaller man, just for a minute, until the energy dies down and he pulls Yuuri close to him.

A moment of easy silence envelops them both, punctuated by a sigh from Makkachin, and they both relax into each other’s arms. Yuuri’s gaze wanders over to the door of the apartment, then down to the floor next to it, where both of their shoes lie in wait for wear. At least neither one of them had issues remembering to take their shoes off indoors. “You know, there’s not too many differences between Japan and Russia,” he supplies, “I think I could put up with your nonsense scribbling for a while.”

“A while? How long is a while, _zolotse_?”

Yuuri just ponders for a moment, leaning up to touch his nose to Viktor’s, grinning. “Forever, maybe.”


End file.
